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Fifteen
Nic woke alone.
Again.
At first he couldn’t believe that she was really gone—how could he after the night they’d had? She’d made love to him as if he was her everything, as if he was the only thing, and he’d tried to make love to her the same way. Tried to tell her with his actions what she wouldn’t yet believe if he told her in words—that he was in love with her. That he wanted to spend the rest of his life making her, and the baby, as happy as she made him.
Telling himself that she was up before the alarm only so she could pack, he pulled on a pair of sweats and headed toward the kitchen to see if maybe she was making a cup of tea for herself. Or breakfast. Or—
Except the kitchen was empty. As was the rest of the house—he knew because, like an idiot, he checked every single room. She was in none of them. And he didn’t know why.
She hadn’t seemed angry at Marc last night. He’d been furious at his brother—was still furious—but she’d seemed strangely understanding. Had even urged Nic to get over his anger and talk to Marc about what he’d said, even though it was the last thing Nic wanted to do.
So why was she gone? Had he upset her somehow? Had he been too rough with his lovemaking? Had he hurt her? Just the thought made him sick to his stomach, and he headed back to his room to grab his phone and call her.
But when he picked it up, he saw that she had beaten him to the punch. There was a series of text messages from her that told him everything he needed to know.
I’m sorry, Nic. This isn’t working. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. I still plan to have the baby, and of course, you can have as large or small a part in his life as you would like. But the whole being-in-a-relationship, living-together thing…it just isn’t for me. I’ll have your stuff delivered to your office this week. My only request is that you don’t contact me until I contact you. And I will, I promise. Just not for a little while. Thank you for everything.
Don’t contact me.
Thank you for everything.
Don’t contact me.
Thank you for everything.
He read the message over a dozen times. Two dozen times. Until he had it memorized so well that he didn’t even need to look at it anymore and still it played in his head.
This isn’t working.
Don’t contact me.
Thank you for everything.
Shocked and devastated—more devastated than he had any right to be considering how little time he’d known her—he sank down onto the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. And tried to figure out what the hell had happened. What he’d done wrong. How he’d spooked her.
He was a savvy businessman and an even savvier student of human nature—he had to be to do the job he did. And yet, this time, he had nothing. Yes, Marc had attacked her at the gala, but she was the one who had stopped Nic from defending her. She was the one who had defended Marc, for God’s sake. And even after that, she hadn’t seemed to hold it against Nic. Instead, she’d come home with him. She’d made love to him, had let him make love to her. And it had been everything their first night together had been, only more. Because this time they’d known it meant something.
Or at least, he’d thought it had meant something. Now, sitting here in an empty bed that still smelled of her, he wasn’t sure it had meant anything at all.
Suddenly, he wasn’t sure of anything when it came to Desi and him and the relationship he’d been trying so hard to build with her. For the baby’s sake…and for his.
Because he loved this woman, loved her more than he’d ever loved anyone. And though a lot of people would say it was ridiculous to fall in love with someone so quickly, he knew that wasn’t the case. Because he hadn’t fallen in love with Desi over the past few days as they’d tried to figure out what to do with the baby.
He’d fallen in love with her that night, nineteen weeks ago, when he’d brought her home and made love to her as if his life depended on it. Because, it turned out, it did. It really did. The life he wanted, the life he was so desperate for—with her and him and their baby—did depend on it.
And he would have sworn she felt it, too. If not that first night, then certainly last night, when they’d made love again and again and again. When he’d whispered in her ear and kissed her rounded stomach and nearly cried with how right it had all felt. When he’d held her in his arms and talked about anything and everything, including their baby and the future that they shared.
Damn it, he couldn’t have been that wrong. He couldn’t have imagined the look on her face or the love in her voice or the aching tenderness of her touch. He couldn’t have imagined all of that.
Which meant she hadn’t answered all of his questions after all. Because the one thing she was missing, the one answer she hadn’t given him, was why.
And as he sat there, smartphone clutched in his hand and his heart on the floor, he knew it was the only answer that mattered.
He got to her apartment—to their apartment—before she did.
As he bounded down the stairs from the roof, he prayed he wasn’t too late. That she would talk to him, listen to him and give him a chance to somehow fix whatever had gone so terribly wrong.
